


marble

by Eon-Flamewing (eonflamewing)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angel/Human Relationships, Fluff, M/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 03:36:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18357800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eonflamewing/pseuds/Eon-Flamewing
Summary: An angel learns to love, in a summer's dream.(Stream-of-consciousness style story.)





	marble

[insp.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8NTdrl-MEI)

\---

 

The sun sets a different colour every day. It’s not anything strange, not anymore. It’s been like this for years.

The sun sets a burning crimson tonight, the colour of flame. The clouds are reflected on the myriad lakes that dot Hamel’s outskirts. Once, they had been the setting for tales of daring battles - but now, they serve solely as fronts for assaults against the otherworldly.

How swiftly do mortal enemies unite against a common front. But then again, he supposes it is inevitable for mortals; whose lives are ultimately transient and take much more effort to maintain. Thus it stands to reason that they need guidance lest the flames of their lives flicker out without meaning - and for this reason he is here, an agent of the divine, to pass on instructions from a goddess who knows much better than they ever will.

Humans are so strange. This he thinks even now as he looks out above the balcony of Hamel’s church, a building chiseled out of marble to revere the lady who protects them. The streets are a stream of people below him, buzzing in conversation between civilians and warriors alike. None of them notice him; a singular figure robed in the white and blue of the sky, just watching.

He's there for a while, as the light above crossfades from red to purple to a velvet black. Someone does notice him, eventually - footsteps of light armour upon the marbled floor, culminating in a young man dressed in sharply cut red.

“You,” he says evenly, as how one would acknowledge the presence of falling rain.

“Me.” The youth folds his arms. “You've been here awhile, you know.”

“I know.”

“It'll be summer soon.” The other acolytes and guards will be going back to their homes. “You're staying here?”

“I am.”

His eyes are still fixed on the scenery below. It's not like there's anywhere else he can go, after all. This is his home.

“I see. Well, maybe you'd be glad to know that I'm also staying.”

There's a pause before he turns, pale blue gaze fixed on his companion for the first time in many minutes; a small frown creasing his slim brows.

“Why?”

The youth shrugs. “Why not?”

“You're such a strange human.” He sighs, a soft and measured gesture - almost artificial. 

“You're strange too. That makes two of us.”

He doesn't reply, letting the silence reform around them as the streets empty out, his attention not on this world but in some distant realm beyond the ken of mankind.

 

\---

 

The church serves many purposes in Hamel. Of course, it is a place of worship first and foremost; but the goddess also played many other roles in the lives of humans. Warriors trained here to defend against demon incursions; scholars poured over books written by their predecessors with guidance from the divine. The city council was also required to meet here once a month, so that their decisions can be arbitrated under Her watchful eyes. 

He cannot imagine a time where She was not here; it is her grace that allowed humans to flourish. It must be. There's simply no other explanation.

The marble halls are mostly empty now. With the academia adjourning and the most recent wave of demons repelled, it is time for the humans occupying the church to return home and rest. He's never understood it, but perhaps he cannot - for his entire existence is dedicated to servitude, and it is a sublime state that humans cannot reach. 

It is not with emotion that he watches said humans stream out and say their temporary goodbyes - for they will always return. Instead, he watches only with a dry sort of curiosity, as how a human would observe a procession of ants.

But he is not alone, as he comes to realize. A youth leans against one of the marble pillars, his arms folded loosely with something tucked between two fingers. He tilts his head, lifts his gaze to appraise the man.

“You again,” he says with a sigh, watching his new companion offer him a wave.

“Yes, it’s me.” Ran wears his cheer easily, as always. “I’ve been looking for you, Ramiel.”

“What do you want?”

He watches the redhead hold out a slip of paper to him. It’s a ticket printed in neat font, describing some sort of concert. He recalls some sort of festival being discussed by several acolytes two days ago - naturally, he’s disregarded it; like how he disregards everything not related to his duty.

“I got a pair foisted on me. You wanna come?”

“I would think your time better spent in the company of others of your kind.”

“But I want to go with you.”

Ramiel sighs again. It’s a scene not new to him - being pestered by someone he cannot understand, yet harmless enough to warrant consideration. Ran does his duty well, after all - while he will never directly hear the voice of the divine, he does try his best to adhere to his tasks.

As an emissary, he supposes he has to do something. Hard work must be rewarded, even if this human requests it in the strangest of ways. Thus:

“I shall allow it.”

Ran smiles easily, like the bloom of ink through water, or cloud upon a windy sky.

“Great! You probably know this already, but it’s tomorrow. I’ll come pick you up maybe an hour before? Unless you want to do something else?”

“An hour ahead is fine.”

He plucks the ticket from Ran’s grip with slender fingers, turning it over in his hands.

“An hour it is, then. Thanks.”

The human knows when to stop bothering him, which is why he tolerates his company. He does not see Ran again until the appointed hour, though he does catch glimpses of the redhead here and there. He seems happy - vibrant, even; but maybe that was just his default state of existence.

He waits at the arch leading out of the church, dressed in an ensemble of white and blue. It's an illusion, of course - a projection, of details and patterns that cannot be replicated by human hands. The night wind is strong today, combing through his glacial hair.

“You're late.”

Ran smiles, though it's more bashful than anything else.

“Sorry. I had some stuff to settle.”

He eyes the human for a few moments, taking in fabric of black and gold, an attempt to look formal enough to match.

“You’re so strange.”

Ran looks down at himself, brushes some imaginary dust off his shirt.

“Do I look weird?”

“No.” A sigh, and then: “Let's go.”

The hall is populated today - filled mostly by adults, putting on their Sunday best for an orchestra. He closes his eyes once they start playing, letting the music soak in. There's some reverence in the way the humans attend to their instruments, blending vibrations in the air into something beautiful - he's not sure if he'll ever understand how, but he can appreciate the results.

Not for the first time he feels someone else’s eyes on him, but he elects to not respond. He stays seated even during the intermission, aware of the fleeting silence that it leaves - and then the music is back again, bracketed by the voices of the attendees at start and end.

He never really pays attention to human speech unless it concerns his duty. Their chattering is to him what the buzz of insects is to them - present but disregarded; inconsequential.

It’s pitch dark by the time they return to the church. Ran starts up some conversation about music as they left the concert venue, but soon lapses into silence; a quiet that the angel appreciates. 

Humans talk too much, after all. And he’s content to let the silence stay, breaking it only when they have reached the door of the sanctum and Ran turns to leave.

It’s been bothering him for a long while now. Usually, he lets it pass, but this seems like a good time - the twilight hour, where everything seems ethereal under marble and moonlight.

“Why do you look at me so much?”

Ran shrugs. “Because you’re beautiful. I’m always tempted to.”

Ramiel eyes him for a few moments, trying to discern any trace of hidden intent in the crease of his smile. No trace of darkness lingers in the human’s countenance, as befit one of his station - a servant of light.

“Then, I shall allow it.” 

 

\---

 

The sky is painted a deep shade of blue today, a circle of azure framed by roofs of marble. He stands before the fountain at the center of the church, looking up past the capstone statue and into the blue beyond. Everything is very clean, of course - he dusts it every day, removes the coins tossed inside by superstitious pilgrims, and replenishes any wilted flowers. He used to maintain the wreaths by magic alone, until children pricked themselves upon the mirror-glass and they had to be removed.

How fragile, humans are. It stands out to him in the most unexpected places - prayers for disease, both physical and mental. Prayers for afflictions he's never heard of and will never contract; jealousy, pride, and the venom that some call love. He doesn't understand why the goddess favours such flawed creations; but She does, and it is not his place to question Her will.

There's no one here today, of course. The fountain whispers in serene silence, and he finds himself drawn to the water’s edge. The pool reflects him almost perfectly - he bears no wings, but his image does; a lucent pair of white.

She is silent today, leaving him without a pressing task - with freedom, something that he does not know how to handle. He lingers by the edge of the fountain, the soft murmur of water taking the edge off.

(Empty, is how he feels now.)

He watches the sky change colours, blue fading into purple and then a deep crimson. Today's sunset spills over into the skylight, gilding the marble with gold. 

… again, he is not alone. He feels the presence of someone else, but he does not move. They will come to him.

Ran stops at the edge of the fountain, peers at the water, then at him, and back to the water again.

“Wow,” he says, his tone a touch reverent. “Is that real?”

“Of course it is.”

“But it's not there.”

“It is. You do not see it.”

“Oh. Can I?”

He hesitates, weighing both options in his mind before relenting and letting them manifest. His wings are white; glowing a little in the faded twilight, dusted with an aura of blue. 

What he does not expect is Ran reaching out to touch them immediately - his fingers brushing against the longest flight feathers, combing the smooth satin of locked barbs. He starts, wings twitching along their length in a controlled ripple - just once, before he stills himself back into a veneer of distant calm.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” 

Ran quickly lets go, receiving only a questioning look in reply.

“I was curious, is all.” 

“Don't startle me like that.” 

Ramiel sighs, though he still keeps his wings out - and the human takes it as implicit permission to come closer again. Ran lifts a hand to feel the edges of one primary feather, tracing it from shaft to tip. The texture is similar to that of a bird’s, though coloured with an impossible luster - clear and reflective, like crystal.

He moves slower this time, brushing the quills of shorter secondaries before moving to the coverts. These carry a softer sheen than the flight feathers, smooth yet soft and reminiscent of down. In many ways, Ramiel’s wing is a copy of bird wings - or perhaps, those birds copied the design worn by angels. It's hard to tell which came first.

Ran tucks his fingers underneath one of those feathered layers, and feels a slight tremor run along its length. Ramiel turns, eyeing him again with that look, his eyes clear as piercing glass.

“What are you doing?”

Maybe he should have let go, but he doesn't feel like it right now.

“You look a little tense. I thought I’d help.” Aren't bird wings extensions of their shoulders, anyway? 

The angel narrows his eyes just a little, but he does not move. Ran smoothens those feathers again, pressing gently on a knot of tension bundled near the crook of his wing, and feels it slowly fade. 

“Does it feel good?” 

He watches the angel's face closely, sees blue eyes shutter with a soft sigh. 

“I suppose it does.” 

(I shall allow it.) 

Eventually Ramiel folds his wings back, tucking them against his spine before vanishing them from sight. Ran is not quite sure where they go - perhaps back into hammerspace, or perhaps they turn invisible instead. Maybe his question will be answered if he just rests his hand on the angel’s back; but that is far too intimate to contemplate now, even if they are alone. He's done a lot already.

“How do you feel?”

He doesn't answer immediately, staring into the fountain in a poetic sort of silence. Eventually, he sighs; a single word slipping out with it.

“Better.”

Ran smiles. “That's good. If you need it again, I can help.”

The angel turns as if to leave, but pauses halfway - returning his attention to his human; scrutinizing Ran’s face with mirror-glass eyes. The silence stretches out before them like a river, bracketed by the steady flow of the fountain beyond.

Finally, he breaks the silence with a soft question.

“Does it make you happy?”

Ran flushes, despite his best efforts not to. 

“Yeah. I guess.”

Ramiel does not smile, but his eyes close halfway - perhaps, an approximation of it.

“I see.” He turns again, and does not turn back. “You may leave.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing without a trace save for a single feather drifting slowly to the ground. Ran bends down to pick it up, holding it by the quill. It shimmers, as if from a dream. 

(Maybe, this too is a dream.)

 

\---

 

Summer crackles like a sleepy bonfire.

It’s been a while since it last rained. The pedestrians have taken to wearing short sleeves, now that the sun paints the air with a homely sort of buzz. The lakes ensure that the heat is never oppressively dry nor sickly humid, instead keeping it balanced in a strange sort of harmony.

Has summer always been like this? He can’t really remember, even if he tries. Good thing that it’s now peacetime. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to focus like how he did in winter, when everything seemed crystal clear, like glass.

He’s working in the garden now. The honeysuckles are in full bloom, blanketing pillars and walkways in a waterfall of green and gold, wafting their scent into the breezy air. The sunlight warms him from the outside in, mixing with the smell to evoke memories of lightly spiced wine. It’s an odd sort of state, and he thinks that perhaps he should be concerned - but it feels nice, so maybe he can be forgiven for letting things stay the way they are. 

Pity that he has to trim the plants, so that they stay neat. Weeds are a definitive, but sometimes the vines end up choking out other life in their enthusiasm, so they must go. He picks up a pair of scissors from the pail at his feet, starts on nipping out any protruding strands. The vines bleed a vibrant sort of green, as well as more of that smell.

(Idly, he wonders if they taste as good.)

It’s quiet here, with only the whispers of wind through leaves, so he lets his thoughts drift. The sky above is a boundless blue, traced by thin wisps of white. There’s a certain endless quality to that colour, and he can’t help but be reminded of something else.

Most people work for the church because it guarantees reward. Honesty and consistent work produced a steady wage and a reputation one can wear with pride; and no one cheated here, because to do so under the eyes of the divine will give them a fate of being smited. It’s a special sort of place, one that gathered people of good nature, and it’s all that he can ask for. He has friends here, people who are lively and considerate, who genuinely wish the best for others. It’s a far cry from what he left behind.

But everyone has secrets, and he’s not an exception. Those of the people here just tend to be the more harmless ones.

His reverence is not quite for the goddess who claims this temple - not completely. Of course, people worships her, because she protects them; but he’s never actually seen her before, only the results of deeds attributed to her. Maybe other people heard voices in their heads that led them to great things, but he was never really that fortunate. Maybe, she never had time for him.

(Maybe she never was real, his mind would whisper to him in darker nights; but he knows enough to refute that. She is real, if only because her emissary is, and he can’t be wrong.)

Unlike her, the child she made is definitely real. It’s much easier to put faith in something made of flesh and blood… or more accurately some sort of divine ichor. Ramiel is real - and maybe, Ran is not alone in that he favours the messenger more than the creator.

You’re so strange, the angel often says, but he’s never really said no.

He is strange, isn’t he? A human who seeks companionship not of his own kind but of something inhuman. He’s become aware that a lot of what he does is what his fellows do to the women they chase - so really, he’s not that different from them, a cohort of young lovestruck fools who try to court the favour of those beautiful in their eyes. 

At least, humans are predictable. They’re understandable. Angels are… not.

They’re inhuman. He’s reminded of it often, when his attention gravitates to the glitter of white and blue, watches the angel move. He is possessed of a certain grace, a refined lightness that no one else can quite replicate. Ramiel drifts through the world as if he is only half here, yet he stays sharp when it matters - a keenness that cuts like crystal, like ice.

Maybe, only the inhuman can be perfect, because humanity is inherently flawed.

 

...

 

There’s a sharp sting in the side of his hand, and his attention jerks sharply back to reality. He looks down, sees the scissors lying in the grass, a line of scarlet trailing down from the back of his palm.

Ah.

He briefly contemplates continuing to work in spite of it, but he should probably get the wound cleaned. More red seeps out as he watches, accompanied by a thrum of pain that doesn’t quite go away.

Back to the pavilion it is, then. He picks up the pair of gardening scissors, examining it for any stains - it’s still clean, so he counts himself lucky. Though, he doesn’t get very far - the wind around him intensifies for a moment, and he thinks he hears the rustling of fabric behind.

The angel is there, standing serenely as always, crystal blue eyes not quite fully open. He takes a step forward, closes the distance between them, and takes Ran’s hand.

“Be more careful next time,” Ramiel says softly, thumbing away the blood staining Ran’s skin. There’s a pause as the silence reforms around them, and the wound begins to close - magic, or perhaps a miracle.

(Things like these are what makes him believe.)

Then he takes his hand away, and the spell is broken.

“Oh. Yeah. I’ll try.”

It feels hot. Maybe it’s the sun, or maybe it’s the sheer embarrassment that is making him want to hide in a convenient hole. But there is no hole in the ground beneath to swallow him, and he’s forced to remain standing where he is; pinned to the spot by equal parts of shame and burgeoning infatuation.

He sees the angel eye him; his expression so calm as to be unreadable, like glass.

“You’re so strange.” Ramiel sighs. “Go take a rest.”

Ran trots after him like a puppy, sitting down in the pavillion when told to. All around the honeysuckles bloom, scattering their fragrance into the wind streaming through marbled pillars. His gaze drifts, like always; landing on the angel’s silvery blue hair. It glitters in the sunlight; inhuman yet beautiful, words that he’s carved into his memory by rote and besotted rhyme.

Is it a crime to follow the divine not out of faith, but out of something so basal as love? 

His mind blanks, only refocusing when he sees the angel’s face close by, feels the cool smoothness of slender fingers under his chin. Not for the first time he has the distinct impression of being a deer in headlights, transfixed by a spear of unnatural blue.

(What do you see, in me?)

 

Then Ramiel lets go, straightens up. His robes fall back into place with the whisper of well-cared silk, and he turns as if to leave.

“Where are you going?”

The words slip out before he can stop himself, and he’s glad that the angel’s back is facing him; so that he doesn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of being watched.

“I’ll come back,” is the cryptic reply, and then he’s gone.

Ran is left staring at the air where he once occupied, wishing desperately for his heart to still.

 

\---

 

The solstice comes and goes, and summer begins to fade into autumn. The sun is still bright, of course; but the inebriating heat withers away, so that the light is now merely illuminating.

He's at the lakes now, for a day spent away from the temple. Such things have become more rare, both because he's busier, and because the angel never really leaves. 

Ran hooks a feather to the edge of his fishing rod, and casts it into the water. The lake reflects the sky above, mirrors of deep blue, and he's content to just gaze at the scenery as time trickles by. No one else is here, the silence woven from rustling leaves and occasional birdsong - calming in many ways, and he has to wonder if this is how the world was before humans came.

(He's been thinking of many things, these days.)

Soon, it'll be time to return to their duties, away from this ephemeral summer dream. He'll be a soldier once more, and the angel will be… still an angel, but more distant, less private. He had the most responsibilities of all, and most of it would be for other people, as it should be.

It's an odd sort of loneliness that accompanies this realization. Maybe it was futile to wish for something that never belonged to humans. But he's sure the memories will still linger, and maybe, just maybe, that'll be enough.

The fishing rod jerks in his hand, and he's reeling it in before he becomes conscious of it - fighting the fish hooked on the other end, a battle of wits between the fisherman and his catch. He feels the slippery streak of silver weaken as the minutes tick by, and eventually a sharp tug frees it from the water. It is by reflex that he readies himself to catch the fish, and it is by surprise that he loses it.

“What are you doing?”

He recognizes that voice, even if it comes from behind unseen. The fish slips through his fingers and flails about on the grassy ground, an odd metaphor for how his heart flutters in his chest.

“I'm fishing.”

Ran manages to keep his voice even, kneeling down to pick up the fish again. He forces his gaze onto it even as a shadow falls across him - the fish is reasonably sized, and from its strength he can deduce that it's likely to be full of muscle. Bream are good with a bit of lemon, if he can find some….

“I see. What are you going to do with it?”

He has to look up now. It’s something he both regrets and does not, for he sees the angel dressed not in priestly robes but in something startlingly casual - still in white and blue, but plain and without decoration. He looks almost human, dressed in human-like clothes.

It takes him a few moments to find his voice, trying to ignore the guilty flush threatening to colour his face.

“..... uh, eat it, I guess? Why are you here?” Aren't you busy?

“I was bored, so I decided to look for you.”

Oh. It's… a very human answer. It's… impossible, isn't it? He's probably hallucinating - but on the off chance that he isn't, he should play the part. 

Ran sets the fish down in a bucket he had prepared, watches it regain composure in the water scooped within. He dries his hands on a towel, then tries to look at the water - but he can't, not right now. 

“I'll probably catch a few more, then I’ll cook them for dinner. D’you want to join me?”

“Very well,” the angel says, and his eyes half-close to accompany a very slight smile. 

It’s the first time Ran has ever seen him smile, and it ignites a strange fire inside him - his hands find purchase in Ramiel’s white shirt, and before he knows it he's pressed his lips to the angel’s own; half expecting to be smited for finally giving into his selfish desires… but nothing happens, nothing at all.

The silence stretches on, and he becomes aware of a soft vibration against his sternum. It takes him a few seconds to realize what it is - angels don't have a human pulse, after all. The hum comes from somewhere inside Ramiel's own chest.

Then the embarrassment catches up to him completely and he pulls away, burying his face in the angel’s clothes while he tries to calm the fluttering of his own heart. Ramiel says nothing, tucking an arm around Ran’s back, to soothe and comfort him.

(I’m so, so glad I'm alive.)

 

A few days later he returns to his room late at night, after the torches and candles have been put out. The moon shines in from the single window - bright enough to see by, spilling silver onto the floor. 

Ramiel sits at the edge of his bed, his hair tied in a low ponytail and thrown loosely over a shoulder. He looks up, taking in Ran’s look of bemusement, and fans out his wings.

“Revere me,” he says lightly, and his tone leaves no room for refusal.

 

\---

 

He wakes the next day wreathed in feathers.

There’s quite a few of them, tufts of silver-white scattered on the sheets and lingering on the floor. They glitter a little in the morning sunlight, enough to make him think that perhaps he had broken some glass - but they are only feathers, ethereal enough to start fading once he rubs his eyes and tries to pick them up. Even if they are quickly becoming translucent, they are quite soft to the touch; like a certain someone else.

There’s a knock, and Damian pushes open the door without waiting for an answer. He peers down at Ran, who is still dressed in his sleeping clothes, and down at the feathers on the floor.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted to sub Constance for patrols, but…. dude. Did you like, fuck a chicken, or something?’

“No??”

“Okay, just checking.” Damian runs a hand through his cropped hair. “So, you coming or not?”

Ran blinks, his brain trying to focus on his coworker’s words and not the implications of making love to something fowl.

“Sure. What time is it?”

Might as well, since it’ll get him away from the temple. He thinks he’ll need it.

“Nine something. You’ve got maybe an hour or so before we leave.”

“Cool. I’ll be there.”

Damian closes the door, and he’s alone again. The feathers are gone now, and it leaves him feeling oddly empty.

 

\---

 

Humans are so strange.

He stands in the shade of a marble pillar, watching the humans go by. It’s a rare sort of autumn day; the ones that are both bright and cold, like the crisp snap of glass. The wind streams through the temple’s halls like always, ruffling cloth and hair alike.

No one sees him here. Angels can make themselves invisible if they so choose, so he is here watching the people as how one would watch a colony of ants. Their thoughts and emotions stand out to him, a sea of colour and music that blends in and out. And he is waiting, focus poised to catch a certain refrain should it appear - one that is both new and hauntingly familiar, like a recurring dream.

Humans are so strange, in the way they chase after things that make no sense, that are whimsical as the whirl of a butterfly’s wings. How strange, that they can contemplate both the colour of dinner and the nature of their very existence in the same minute - but he can appreciate beautiful things, even if he does not understand them. So he watches, admiring the harmony of voices that appear out of the chaos and fades back again, of thoughts both trivial and harrowing.

— he comes. A warm aura filters through the susurration of the crowd - bright like the sun, yet devoid of the scorching intensity that one would otherwise associate with it. Ramiel does not need to look to know who it is, nor call out to them - he merely has to remove his invisibility, and they will gravitate to him in time.

So he does, opening his eyes when that presence settles by his side. For the briefest of moments he sees someone else, then his vision settles and resolves into Ran’s smiling face. Though, that smile soon dampens into something a touch more worried:

“Did something happen? You look a little…” 

(Spaced out, is what the human’s heart says. He hears it clearly as if spoken aloud.)

“I’m fine,” he says softly, turning away. Ran follows naturally, and they head down the stairs toward the garden. Autumn paints the trees in vibrant shades of red and gold, so that he is the one now who stands out, dressed in white and blue.

He heads to the pavilion, like always; sitting down on one of the marble benches. Ran settles himself adjacent, close enough for their arms to make contact, but no more. The silence weaves itself around them in the whisper of leaves, and he’s content to let it stay that way.

A memory stirs in the centre of his chest, pricked by the vibrant hues around them - a name on the tip of his tongue. He wonders why he has forgotten, and why he strains to remember it now. The world around him feels hazy like a dream, but he is not alone - Ran leans on him a little, warm with the guiltless happiness of mortal love.

(Angels forget, because to remember too much is a curse.)

Eventually he speaks, his voice quiet and measured, like glass.

“Do you know what happens when you die?”

It’s a heavy question. He feels Ran curl around him in slight alarm, the quickening of his pulse palpable like the beat of a paper-thin drum.

“I don’t. Um… do you?”

“I’ve never died.” He says this lightly like always, in the hopes that Ran will settle - and the human does, laying his head back on Ramiel’s shoulder.

“Of course you haven’t.”

(You wouldn’t be here, otherwise. But why the question? What’s bothering you?)

If only he could answer. If only he could remember, past the fleeting recollections engraved upon splintered glass - the sound of someone else’s laugh, a feather of brilliant red, the scent of spice and smoke. 

(Who are you?)

He does not remember, but the sunlight is warm, and he feels like he’s found something precious again.

 

\---

 

Angels do not sleep. He cannot, even if he tries.

Ran sleeps, though. He’s a human - very much so, in the way he passes out curled up inside his blankets. Ramiel sits at the edge of his bed, the human’s arms wrapped around his own. He lifts his free hand to brush locks of brown away from Ran’s face; his skin soft and warm against the chill of an inhuman form. 

Humans dream. He can feel the lambent pulse of Ran’s thoughts, muted and jumbled by sleep. Surely, these are pleasant dreams - there is no pain in them, only calm and contentment. The human’s even breathing marks the passage of time in a night that is both fleeting and endless.

Maybe, if he watches Ran enough, he’ll learn how to sleep too.

Eventually he lies down on the bed completely, stretching a little to ease the tension in his crafted body. Ran mutters something inaudible and curls around him, laying his head on the angel’s chest. There is nothing between them save for the soft fabric of a sheet, so he unfolds a wing and slips it over the human’s form.

How strange, that humans crave to be together even if their skin separates them and they can never truly become one. He cannot understand it, but he can appreciate it - the way it sets his vessel aflame, and quickens the flicker of Ran’s life.

(A human heartbeat is so real. It’s so fragile, as if one snap could extinguish that pulse in an instant.)

He closes his eyes, but what blooms in his mind is not a dream. Instead, he is on a burning plain, alone save for a single person ahead of him. The darkness roils all around them in shapes of miserable fog, one that sets his celestial senses on edge - so this is a memory; not of the recent past but of a time he has left far behind.

The figure smiles, like ink blooming in water. He sees them reach out to brush the ash from his face, gentle despite the blood crusting on their clothes and wings.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, his voice soft and fond. “I’ll come back.” 

(He knows he didn't. He's been waiting for more years than he can count.)

How strange for the goddess to make Her creations fragile in the most painful of ways. But he's never questioned Her and never will, so he solved it in the simplest way he could - to forget and become inhuman, cold as ice and distant as moonlight. Humans feared him, as they should; all of them, except one.

 

...

He must have been crying, because his vision refocuses onto Ran’s concerned face, and the sensation of something cold on his cheek. The redhead reaches up, thumbing tears away from the corners of Ramiel’s eyes.

“Are you okay?”

The angel looks into Ran’s eyes. They are a glassy grey under the moonlight, but he knows that the sun pricks them into a brilliant red - the very same as that memory, a flame in the endless abyss. 

He knows he’s crying, but he can’t help but smile in spite of it; an odd sort of relief and sadness altogether alien but somehow reassuring.

“I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

He’s sure that Ran will never remember, but he does not need to. They are happy now, and it is enough.

(My sun, my dearest sun.)

 

\---

 

The snow outside falls gently like feathers, like a dream.

They’re seated in one of the church’s inner halls now, the only one with a fireplace. Ran had found some logs for the fire, and they crackle a little as they burn; the sound muffled by the walls and carpeting. Ramiel is reading by the hearth, seated with his legs tucked neatly under him - a position perfectly symmetrical, another small detail that hints to his inhuman nature. 

Ran is also reading, but lying on the floor instead. Sometimes he puts his book over his face for a few minutes - maybe he’s sleeping, but he always picks it up again. The angel watches him out of the corner of his eye, but it’s not really needed. He can feel Ran’s aura without looking; sensing the way it ebbs and flows like the fire in front of them.

Eventually he closes the book in his hands, and sighs. “Are you tired?”

Ran opens his eyes.

“A little. It’s kind of warm.”

He says nothing at first, moving to sit closer to his human. Ran shifts a little so he can rest his head on Ramiel’s lap, reaching up to curl his fingers around trailing blue locks. It's hard to tell if he’s flushing right now, or if he's finally outgrown the habit; but it's not necessary. The angel can feel Ran’s emotions flare with their newfound proximity, bathing him in a comfortable warmth, like sunlight.

It's better than the fire, in some ways. Angels aren't bothered by the ambient temperature, so he really is here just to soak in a remembered love.

“Go sleep, then. I'll watch you.”

Ran puts a hand over his face, deflecting his own embarrassment with a non-sequitur.

“I read that angels don’t grow old. Is that true?”

Ramiel eyes him, though that is only for the human’s benefit, so that he knows his angel is thinking. He can read Ran’s thoughts without moving - a small knot of anxiety that nestles at the base of his stomach, carrying an innocent question.

(Will I ever be worthy of you, especially when I'm old?)

The answer is simple; though he supposes he needs to convey it with some lyricism, so that it fits the atmosphere.

“I can change my appearance. I’ll age with you.”

He says this softly, basking in the warm aura that radiates from Ran’s earnest smile, and begins to pet his hair.

 

\---

 

Winter gives way to summer, and back again. The seasons fade into one another and time flows on, like it should.

The demons are gone now. What was once a yearly campaign to drive them back turned into a triennial one, then once every five years. Perhaps the otherworldly waned, or that the blessings of the divine grew stronger - or perhaps both, urged along by the strength of man. Without need for battle, the warriors slowly become obsolete; and thus they turn to safer jobs in this newfound peacetime.

The marble never changes, watching over scholars and scribes instead of the honed flashes of steel. He doesn't mind it, because the humans come and go with the seasons, like the yearly migrations of birds.

He remembers looking out over the lakes every year, in the heat of summer and the scent of flowers, just watching. On the tenth year, he sees something cloud the end of one lake, a organized mass of bricks and mortar.

“Do you know what that is?”

Ran turns to look out at the water. “I think they're building a canal there, if I remember correctly. It’ll go to the sea.”

No use having all those barricades, since there are no battles to fight. Maybe the forts will stay, but a link to the ocean will help. It'll pass Velder on the way - more people will come, more prosperity. Maybe, it's what the goddess wanted, too.

“Did you ever see the ocean?”

Ramiel eyes him, a thoughtful tinge to his mirror-glass eyes.

“I did, a long time ago. It was before the demons came; then I was sent here, and I've remained ever since.”

“Let's go, then. I'll find us time. The sea is very different from the lakes here.”

(We’ll make new memories, won't we?)

Ran smiles easily, like the bloom of ink on water, like clouds across a windy sky. He can't help but smile as well, the infectious aura of a human’s happiness blending with the warm sunlight all around, like a beautiful dream.

 

\---

 

The sun sets a different colour every day. It’s not anything strange, not anymore. It’s been like this for decades.

The sun sets a soft crimson tonight, the colour of embers. The clouds are reflected on the myriad lakes that dot Hamel’s outskirts, forming a tapestry of red and gold. Once, they had been the setting for tales of daring battles - but now, they serve solely as sacred sites of nature, free from conflict by the hands of men and divinity alike.

A middle-aged man dressed in white makes his way down to the lake, the twilight colouring his clothes into muted shades of grey. He sets a little boat made of folded paper onto the water, and lights it with a simple gesture. The wind will carry the small vessel away from the shore, and hopefully toward the distant ocean.

(The sea is blue, like the sky.)

He sighs, lifting his hands to cover his face briefly, then lets them fall back to his sides. When he opens his pale blue eyes, he wears the face of someone timeless once again. Then he turns away from the lake, and the shore falls silent as if he was never there.

This was an ephemeral dream. Even if the dreams of celestials last many summers, they still have to end - but they were happy, and maybe, this is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written late August 2018. I originally kept it to myself, but it ended up being what I considered the best thing I produced last year, so I've decided to upload it here. Hope you have enjoyed it.


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